


The Agreement

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Beekeeping, Caddy - Freeform, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, First Time, Golf, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, The Medical Community, The Omnipotence of Mycroft Holmes, What Physicians Don't actually do on their days off, mirror image, this is really not at all about golf or being a caddy, venipuncture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes will go to great lengths to locate and detox his brother.  An alternate first meeting, where Mycroft has struck a deal with Dr. John Watson to find and engage his brother.  Sherlock Holmes has fallen on hard financial times, and turns to being a golf caddy in order to make some quick money.  Unfortunately, he has no experience, and links up with Dr. John Watson, who is playing a round with some of his medical buddies.  There certainly is a lot of influencing going on in this story, and the Holmes brothers are wielding their influence rather well over those they come in contact with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Agreement

Dr. John Watson met Dr. Alexander Levin in the parking lot of the golf course, where they had a standing appointment for a golf four-some.  The overcast outskirts of the London sky looked heavy, as usual, but it was not precipitating. Yet.  Key fobs beeped as two boots opened and golf bags were retrieved. Tee off was still a half hour or so future, and Alex Levin was already laughing.  At John.  

"Your caddy stand you up _again_?" He introduced Philip, his caddy, and John remembered him from last time, shook hands with him. "You need to find someone reliable, John."

"I know, Alex." John shrugged, downplaying it. "Worked out okay last month choosing from the lottery at the shoppe." The course had an assortment of caddies who would arrive on weekend mornings, hire themselves out to the players. Occasionally it would be prone to misfire, but John had good luck so far with choosing a competent caddy who knew what he was doing. Alex didn't know that John had also played the two previous Saturdays in a random outing. And no one except John and one other knew the true reason for doing so. John wasn't much of a golf fan, but the perks of the offer had already offset his residual reservations.

The trio chatted about nothing much as they headed to the pro shoppe. John went to check in as their third and fourth arrived, each with caddy in tow. Tee off time confirmed, John headed into the anteroom where a few young men and women sat, drinking coffee or studying. All looked up as John came to the door. It was the equivalent of an on-sight job interview. They were obviously various levels of proficiency, John could tell just from looking around. Professional attire was a plus, he knew, and most were appropriately garbed. His eyes scanned the room, searching, looking, ruling out many just on appearance. Not that one, nor that... Had John had a free will choice, he would hands-down have chosen the one poring over one of the medical texts John kept on the shelf in his office. But his gaze settled on a seated but obviously tall young man, legs folded, dressed all in black, professional garb although not typical golf attire. Pale eyes looked back at him, hands with long fingers holding a mobile that was ignored under John's scrutiny at the moment anyway. Dark curls if a little bedraggled, very thin. He'd been warned there was likely substance abuse, and a significant habit that was driving the need for quick money. Eyes looked clear, steely blue and intense, although the expression was fatigued. It had to be him, based on the description John had been given, and the closer he got, the more he was certain.

John took a few steps, approached him while very curious eyes across the room watched in some surprise. Clearly there were choices ahead in the pecking order, caddies with more experience, more energy, higher in the ranking, and everyone in the room knew it. "Playing eighteen today. Interested?"

Long legs unfolded, then, as he stood. "Obviously," he said, as if John had asked the most ridiculous question he'd ever heard. He was even thinner, John saw, standing.

He'd been warned about the snarkiness. _Game on, then_. "John Watson," he said, extending a hand.

"Sherlock Holmes." John had been advised that an alias might have been a possibility, although this was the name he'd been given.

"We tee off in ten or so." He didn't belabor any small talk, but turned and walked out to the green, where the rest of the group was gathered. John laid a hand on his clubs, and Sherlock stood close to them, quiet. He didn't look particularly healthy, John saw. Gaunt. His color sallow. Long sleeves covered his arms, but if John's information was correct, there was probably evidence of drug use. Part of him was relieved to at least have located him. It would make the rest of the day much easier. He pulled out his mobile, ostensibly to check the time, fired off a quick one-word text to convey location and confirmation, as he had been instructed: **bullseye**. 

The response came minutes later, **enjoy the course, delivery to your home in progress now**.

Sherlock had yet to join the conversation that morning, other than a curt response when being introduced to the group. He eyed up John and the clubs, and waited until John was next to him, then said, "You don't even like golf. And these are not yours. _Borrowed._ "

John had been warned about this, too. "Physician group today, schmoozing. Not exactly optional."

"You could be pretty good at it. Left handed, left eye dominant. You should get your own clubs if you continue to play."

"Noted." John had never been bullied into anything, particularly from someone he'd just met, and he let his eyes narrow a bit in the assertiveness of his response. A hint of amusement greeted the reaction.  Not a pushover, not intimidated was the message conveyed, and, if John could judge, it met with Sherlock's approval.  

John teed up last, held out his hand to Sherlock as the others watched. Sherlock waited for instructions, and, between clenched teeth, John finally said, "Driver."

Sherlock's hand hesitated over the bag and John had to stifle the groan before it became audible. Casually, he reached into the bag, pulled out the club he'd asked for. He deliberately would not meet the curious stares of the rest of his mates. As he sliced the ball rather accurately up toward the fairway, John wondered if the inexperience of his caddy was going to be problematic. He handed the club back to Sherlock as they walked the first hole, and held back just a bit in order to put some distance between the two of them and the others. "You've not done this much, have you?"

"Not exactly.  Done a bit of research."  Sherlock attempted to appear confident without grounds to do so.

Smiling sadly, John sighed.  "That desperate for money?"  Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he heard the displeasure in John's voice, as John pressed him a bit to test his honesty.  

"Not all of us are gainfully employed doctors.  Just tell me what you want."

"First shot is _always_ the driver. Beyond that, I will. You have a towel?" The grass was somewhat wet, and the clubs were going to need tending to after use. John watched Sherlock shake his head, and there was the slightest self-deprecating crinkling of those stunning eyes. John held out a hand, halted his neophyte caddy and pawed in the depths of the bag for a worn towel at the base. "Each club gets wiped down after use if needed. It will today, everything's a bit damp." They took a few steps, Sherlock in the lead. Another etiquette breach.

He shook his head inwardly and sighed audibly, recalling the purpose of the outing. "Look. Please don't humiliate me today. Keep pace or be a step behind." At Sherlock's puzzled and near offended response before he schooled it, John had to laugh. The others in the party glanced behind, watching the dynamics before continuing. Conversation was appropriate and normal, especially if a caddy was new to the golfer. "You've really no clue what's expected here, do you?"

Their eyes met, and John held back the grin at the smirk trying not to appear on Sherlock's chiseled face. He was all angles, long limbs, and cheekbones and needed a few good meals in John's opinion. "The hole is about 200 meters that direction."

There was a shared silent amused moment, where eyes met, smiles threatened, and John nodded. "Guess that's a good start. I'll help you, but stay focused, ok?"

John's eyes took in the form next to him.  Not a lot of muscle mass, and definitely not optimal nutrition. John wondered how he was going to be able to carry heavy clubs the duration of the morning. "Protein bar in the bag, top pocket. I expect you to help yourself. I'm not carrying you if you drop over on the course."

There was a cynical snort, then, and John would have grinned at the responses Sherlock was obviously considering as their eyes met, held. He didn't care for John telling him what to do (difficult role for a caddie), didn't appreciate being reminded to tend to basic needs (eating, which clearly Sherlock didn't do enough of), and was presently battling with himself about the typical respect a caddy should show his golfer while on the course (he was definitely biting his tongue). Caddy behaviour definitely didn't include mouthing off, cursing, or arguing - all of which, John could tell, Sherlock was having a bloody difficult time with.  Had John not been partnering with some of his co-workers, he would definitely be having thoughts about provoking his caddy, just for the sheer fun of it.

The game flowed smoothly, except for a few rocky moments when John asked Sherlock to tend the pin on the third hole, and then had to talk him through the procedure. He attempted to engage him in casual conversation - education, other employment, where he lived, but all the answers Sherlock gave were vague and essentially non-responsive. By hole five, John reminded him to eat something and received a steely glare for the directive. And no action. Hole eight found John taking a rather lousy shot and ending up behind a tree at the edge of the fairway. Sherlock smirked and kept his silence, and John was almost glad to see it. Perhaps, if it came up, he would claim he did it on purpose in order to check for signs of humanity. With the rest of the group a distance away, John turned to him.

"I saw that."

"Saw what?" Sherlock turned innocence personified at John.

"Don't play stupid, it doesn't become you," John told him.

"I could say the same to you, _sir_ , it doesn't become you either. You should have used a wedge on that last hole."

"The putter was fine. And it's John. Not sir."

"Oh? Don't you miss your military days?" Sherlock handed him the requested club and John lined up to get the ball out in playable area. " _Sir._ "  John felt the stirrings of annoyance at his cheekiness.

"You know this -- ?"

One side of Sherlock's mouth quirked upward.  "I simply observe.  Earlier, the clubs, the wrong length, monogrammed but not your initials."  He grew silent while John hit into playable area.  "And military?  Oh _please, everything_ about you screams military - hair, stance, gait, tone."  Sherlock wiped the club, stowed it.  "You miss it."

"Not especially. Afghanistan was terrible, sandstorms, windy, kids dying, beheadings. Don't miss it 't all." John could tell Sherlock had more he wanted to say about that, or more information to unearth, but didn't. "At least in the military, people know how to follow orders."

"I think in the military, expectations are more clearly defined."

"Do you _really_ want to argue with me?" John was almost spoiling for a good-natured confrontation, moved closer to Sherlock, and watched an expression of merriment and almost... _desire_... flicker across his face as Sherlock's gaze went to John's mouth. Without hesitation, he continued, ignoring both the expression very close to his own and the sensation of warmth that suffused his chest - _bloody hell, what was this all about then?_   _Down boy!_ \- and muttered, "In the military, misrepresenting yourself as having certain skills when you actually don't possess them gets you discharged.  Or worse."

There was silence, then, as John lined up, hit the ball. "Nice shot." Sherlock took the club, wiped it down, bagged it. "You failed to mention you were injured there."

"I did at that."  The look on John Watson's face, Sherlock realised, brooked no further information to be forthcoming.

The skies darkened, and by hole sixteen, they'd picked up the pace in order to attempt to outrun the impending storm. John's score was mid pack, behind by a few strokes, but he, not the serious avid golfer, didn't particularly care one way or the other. It was not why he was there.

A few rain drops at the start of hole eighteen grew heavier as John teed off. Umbrellas came out, then, and being in close proximity in the rain brought out a bit of dark humour and laughter. Alex's caddy slipped, nearly taking out Alex and clubs. By the time they were approaching the green, it was raining steadily. John's large blue and white umbrella covered them both, and Sherlock needed a bit of fine tuning to properly hold it out of the way while John sank his last putt.

No one stuck around long afterward, and John and Sherlock ended up back in the club lounge alone for a few minutes. The caddy pool had long gone, the weather and time of day seeing to that.

John questioned him on his typical fee, handed the notes over along with a generous, if rather undeserved, tip. The delicacy of the moment was never more in the balance as he said casually, "Come. I'll give you a lift home." Sherlock protested, but John shook his head. "Get your things. I insist on that. It's horrid out." Heavy rains made even more of a presence, then, and Sherlock reached in his pocket for a locker key. Retrieving his pack from the pro shoppe anteroom, he followed John to the car and watched John stow his clubs in the boot.

"I really should walk. It's not far."

"Well if it's not far, then me dropping you off won't be a problem then, yeah?" John's steady eyes took in the trembling extremities, the pallor, the anxiety. Sherlock looked away quickly, and john feared for a moment he was going to run. "Look. I get it if you have no place to go. But I told you to eat, and you didn't. I carried you a bit on some things every caddy _except you_ knows. We'll grab lunch, and I have an opportunity for you. If you're not interested, then you can leave after that.  I'll drop you off wherever you want.  Deal?"  John took his off-hand shoulder shrug as acquiescence, and they drove off.

John stopped at a small diner that he hoped would be non threatening. They ordered, and Sherlock excused himself to wash up. John watched him go, rather suspicious. He'd taken his bag with him. John watched the exits. He did return, but it was with glazed eyes and pinpoint pupils.  John's A&E skills noted the bounding rapid carotid pulse and nasal flaring. _Idiot_.

When Sherlock slid back into the seat, John felt his temper flaring, and growled, " _That_ was a very foolish thing indeed." He rose, took Sherlock's elbow, eased him to his feet, walked to the counter, addressed the clerk. "We'll take that to go, instead, please." Whatever the substance, it had mellowed the guy into compliance, John realised.

Minutes later, they were back in John's car, take away in a bag, and Sherlock was quietly watching the road slip by under eyelids at half-mast. John regarded the man sideways, wondering and mildly disgusted about the wasted potential, the curiosity of an obviously intelligent person turning to substances.  His mellow demeanor, unfortunately, became somnolent, and John had two rather opposing schools of thought - one being to drop him off in the A&E where he likely belonged, where they could give him intravenous Narcan and ruin his high.  The other, which John knew was his med school dark humour, would be to reach across, open the car door, and turn the car quickly to the right and let him just roll out.  He did neither, of course, poking him once in the all-too-prominent ribs and receiving a few groans of protest while he drove the remaining minutes to his home.

"Still with us?" John asked, guiding the car between the posts at the end of his driveway.  There was a mumble of noise in response.

It still struck him odd, this being his home now, the purchase facilitated by the party interested in the current occupant of the passenger seat. It was a big house, driveway lined with trees, deck, land, a patio, outdoor shed, and a set up inside that would be conducive to as many medical staff get-togethers as John would ever want to host.  The first party, John thought wryly as he glanced at the passenger next to him, shaking his head, looked as if it not only happened without him, but had left him quite a mess to clean up.

++

The approach had been at the hospital, in his office between patients. "Dr. Watson, a word?" the man had said. and went on to explain what he wanted and how to go about it. He was tall, professional, much more suited to conveying a lot with few words. Clearly there was a back story to this endeavor, and it worried John even as it sparked his interest. John had countered with the expected what's in it for me.  The stakes had included the promised lowered asking price and expedited settlement date of the home John had toured with intent to purchase. And an appeal to his sense of altruism.  Additionally, daily expenses would be covered, for as long as it took to find a certain young man who'd left home.

John's eyes had narrowed then and he'd growled at the man, "Exactly who are you and what do you want with this poor bloke. For all I know you intend him harm."

He was assured, "There is no harm intended.  Only concern.  And your interests lie best in simply considering me an interested party.  Once you have made contact, I would ask only that you wield your positive influence, if possible.  To maintain association beyond the golf course would, naturally, be compensated as well."

But the negotiation had ended with some questions remaining unanswered and John's agreement to think about it. Fairly certain the request to locate the young man was mostly benign, and driven by concern, he wondered at the ethics of the deception.  He could back out at any time without any significant repercussion. The deal was clinched the following day when the realtor he'd been working with called to say that the sellers had unexpectedly lowered the price, leaving the home "as-is" and were looking to settle quickly.

++

Sherlock roused just enough that John didn't have to carry him inside, but then John let him mostly collapse inelegantly on the couch.  He felt his jaws clench as he looked at this new inconvenience, like he bloody needed _this_.  Asleep, the man's face was younger looking, relaxed.  Striking even.   _Not going there_ , John looked away, then returned to the car to stow his clubs and retrieve both Sherlock's bag and the carry out.  He searched the bag quickly, confiscating paraphernalia and locking it away in his desk drawer; later he would dispose of it at the hospital, safely and permanently.  Returning, the physician in him assessed rate and depth of breathing, found it shallow.  He positioned him on his side, tucked a pillow under his head.  He rolled up the sleeves of the inert form, noted track marks including one rather recent jab.  He'd seen worse, not that he ever deemed any  acceptable.  Pupils still constricted, he didn't rouse much when John checked them.  Sternal rub did, however, and he felt somewhat better knowing that he was not deeply unresponsive, then.  His bag was in the adjacent room on his desk, and he obtained his portable pulse oximeter, set it to alarm if needed, placed it on Sherlock's index finger, and got about his afternoon while remaining in close proximity.

John was unpacking books onto the newly constructed shelves in his office when he heard the pulse ox alarm, and moved to the doorway to find Sherlock awake, pulse ox pulled off and being examined for both function and power button.  "Nice nap?" John queried snarkily, unable to keep the cynicism at bay.  Then he looked closer, giving full attention.  "You better now?"

He shrugged.  "Sure."  He rose, slightly unsteady, regained his sea legs and crossed the room, holding John's medical equipment out to him.

"If you're losing muscle mass, or even just losing weight, you should reduce your dose."  John took the pulse ox as Sherlock looked at him, mildly alarmed.  "And if you take a break using, you need to lower the amount the next time, as well."

"You are a _real_ doctor?  Because _that_ is not typical medical advice."  Sherlock was definitely surprised.  And perhaps a bit impressed.

"A&E.  Combat surgeon before that.  But I'm also realistic."  He stowed the stuff in his bag, zipped it.  "You're on a fast track to a lethal overdose if you don't watch it."

The final cobwebs cleared from Sherlock's mind, and John watched his eyes become a bit more focused as his brain engaged.  "Where's my bag?"

John returned to his boxes, the shelves nearly full.  "Bag? by the door.  The cocaine that was in it? Disposed of."

"You had no right --"

"I had every right.   _My house, my rules_."  He nodded toward the kitchen.  "Your lunch is in the icebox."

Sherlock let his eyes wander a bit more than he'd done previously, looking at the rooms, settling on John then in particular. John stood still, finding the scrutiny mildly awkward.  Something about those eyes, what they saw, the color, intensity, the _knowing_ , was appealing.  Shelf project completed, John collapsed the boxes, carried them through the house.  "Come on then."

Before long they were seated at John's counter in the kitchen. Boxes and evidence of recent occupation of the home were everywhere, no window treatments, nothing hanging on the walls, no order to anything yet. Sherlock merely looked at the sandwich in front of him, while John pulled on a bottle of water, in between filling the silence with plans for the house and the work that he was hiring. Sherlock listened, from what John could tell, looked around from time to time as John explained what he was doing, but he wasn't exactly engaged with the details.

"You should eat something." Sherlock looked up then, as if he'd been distracted and was caught off guard. When he was silent, John continued. "You should knock off the substances, too, you know."

"You're awfully bossy," he observed.  "And besides, what do you care anyway?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you  _act like you care_?"

John felt his skin tingle at the hardened question and body language of the man at his elbow, as if he were indifferent, carefree, as if nothing mattered. "You think for a minute I don't see what you're about?" An eyebrow raised at him then, and John paused for a moment now that he had his attention. "I know exactly what you are and am pretty certain what motivates you."

"Doubtful."

"Oh, don't be too sure." John shoved back in the chair, paused for effect. "You think you've cornered the market on chasing excitement, on being bored with your life and everyone around you?" When Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak, the intolerant expression on John's face must have changed his mind. "You do not own the only addiction in this room. And I know what it feels like to need more and more to fill the burning emptiness inside. Except that I _woke up_ before it was too late for me. Because mine started young with cigarettes, then tried much of the rest - eventually gambling, alcohol, and when that wasn't enough I got addicted to danger in the army, doing bloody _surgery_ in the line of fire until I got shot."

"You can't possibly ... this is different."

"I know that it took being the only survivor of my unit to wake me up."

Sherlock was quiet, but John didn't know if it was because he was considering it or was simply apathetic.

"Might as well wrap that up, then if you're not going to eat it," John said, standing up and gesturing at the refrigerator. "And you ask why I care?" Not waiting for an answer, he continued, "I fix people up and send them out, or admit them to get fixed up, and sometimes they die. I can't fix everything, but I don't quit." He shrugged, not caring for how the words were coming out. "I _care_ because I see too many of _you_ come through my department, wasted. Repeatedly.  And some end up DOA." John's frustration with the whole drug culture was getting vented on the unfortunate man next to him, he realised, toned it down as he exhaled. "If you're okay with that, if you think your life doesn't matter, there's the door, have a nice night, thanks for caddying." Pausing, he grinned then, added, "Next time you'll know better what to do, yeah?"

"Maybe." Sherlock's expressions, as they were, John found rather entertaining. High cheekbones, big expressive eyes, brown curled hair all made a rather handsome combination, or they would have been had his color been pinker and his skin tone less hollow. But his expressions gave a hint at what he was thinking until he suppressed it. It made John just want to make that happen again and then watch; his face was just that fun to read.

"I have room, if you want to stay, temporarily. Some work you could help me with. I had no idea about the ridiculousness of getting a home liveable.  Bloody time consuming." John gauged his reaction, chose his words carefully, hoping to be able to continue on with the plan despite the deviation already present. "The drug use is not tolerated while you are here. If you can't - or won't - I understand."

"What exactly do you need done?"

John tried not to exhale in a burst of relief. "Eh, this and that. Mostly meeting contractors and work crews, locking up when they're done, making sure they keep to task.  Contractors give you a time window, and there's no way I can just hang out here waiting around, and still manage to work my shifts at the hospital." He was interested, John could tell, as the rain pounded harder and thunder sounded in the distance.  "I'll show you around."

"I could help with some of that, just for a few days.  Maybe."

John talked payment, then, giving him a brief tour, and was glad that the person who'd hired him to find Sherlock had warned him about arranging a delivery before John got home. There was, among one of the rooms that had been left with belongings of the previous tenant, part of that "as-is" move-in condition, some miscellaneous items that John knew weren't there before.  Something there quickly grabbed Sherlock's attention - a stringed instrument case. John watched as he absently crossed the room while John's diatribe of plans slowed down and stilled. The case opened, and fingers reached out to reverently touch the neck of the ensconced violin, crafted of mahogany toned wood. The instrument wasn't beautiful by any stretch, but well-used. Sherlock plucked the strings lightly, fingering the bridge, neck, chin rest, and bow. Then, while the moments dragged by, he must have realised that John was watching, solemnly.

"Oh, right, sorry."  After closing the case, Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets, almost sheepishly.

John was reluctant to break the silence. "You play?"

"Used to." The nostalgic sentiment seemed out of place for the rest of Sherlock's personality, John thought. John wondered what else may have been delivered to the house in his absence in order to forge a bit more of a bond with this young man. John considered that there was fragility here just below the surface.  It triggered a protectiveness within John.

"Let me finish showing you around, we'll check out the work area out back, too, and then ... I mean, feel free to come back up here and play it, if you want." Keeping the tone casual was easy enough, and for some reason, John figured that Sherlock probably would be rather a skilled musician. It would just... somehow, suit him.  The almost regal carriage and mannerisms were incongruous with a drug-addicted lifestyle, in John's opinion.  It didn't mesh.

They passed the next few minutes seeing the rest of the house, and once they were out back, John could almost have rolled his eyes at another item that had been delivered: a beehive. Sherlock did not immediately go check the hive out, but commented on it with a bit of animation, again, that he tried to suppress. Not for the first time that day, John wondered at the person who was trying to locate Sherlock. Clearly, whoever it was, knew him,  _at one time, anyway_ , rather well.

The remainder of the day, John spent working on organizing his office in the downstairs of the house, sorting papers, moving files, unpacking more boxes. He'd shoved Sherlock upstairs, pointed him in the direction of one of the bedrooms, apologising for the simple mattress on the floor.  He'd thrown sheets at him along with a pillow, and had mostly ignored him. He did, however, hear the violin being tuned and lightly played, even through the closed door and down the long hallway. John found, he realised, quite a bit of pleasure as he listened, not really recognizing any of the pieces, but appreciating the smoothness of the melodies and the almost soulful sadness conveyed therein.

John's sleep habits since Afghanistan had been tenuous at best, and the creaking sounds of the new home seemed to all thwart his efforts at sleep. He found having another person in the house disconcerting as well, and when he heard footsteps in the early hours, he got up to investigate. Sherlock was in the kitchen, and when he realised John was present as well, he froze in front of the open refrigerator door, the light reflecting off the nervous face. "Sorry," he began, "I didn't mean to wake you." He looked young and skittish, and John found himself wondering what possessed him to open his home to a complete stranger about whom he knew very little.

"You didn't. It's okay. Finally going to eat, are you?" John asked kindly, his voice a bit rough and he cleared his throat.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not sleeping, that's for sure."

"I did hook the telly up, throw a movie on if you want." Sherlock made a face. "Or not." John's presence, he could tell, was making Sherlock uncomfortable. "Look, I can leave you alone if you prefer."

"No, you're fine." He certainly looked uncomfortable, and John had an inkling as to the reason.

"So if you were..." he'd been ready to say home, but that didn't seem likely, "... not here, you'd be using?" Sherlock nodded, looking away, in the distance, and his expression was downcast. John wasn't one to shy away from speaking his mind, usually, although he did try to be tactful. "I'm glad you didn't just leave, then." Sherlock held the sandwich, closed the refrigerator door. "Let's throw in a movie, I'll stay up with you. Although I don't promise not to fall asleep on the couch."

Which, after about a half hour of some adventure movie, he ended up doing exactly that. When light peeked in through the curtainless windows, he was alone in the room, the TV looping quietly on the intro screen.

He put coffee on while he worked the kink out of his neck. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, yet anyway, and John knew he might have actually left after John'd fallen asleep. But after a bit, he heard the shower running, and some time after that, Sherlock was downstairs again. The day passed with a few awkward moments, but John had a list miles long to tend to before heading back to work the following day, and he enlisted Sherlock's help with a few projects that required two persons. While they worked, he asked a few questions but Sherlock was pretty closed off. They went through the plans for the following day, which contractors were expected and what would be required for access, task completion, and payment. John gave Sherlock his mobile number, asked him to text with updates or call for questions.

Finally, he wondered aloud if Sherlock had other belongings or a place to keep things. He obviously had a change of clothes in his pack, but little else. Sherlock shrugged, eyed his backpack with a bit of longing, and said, "I crash a few different places, have a few things there, but you never know if anything might be there when you get back."

"Where do you sleep?" John asked quietly, hoping it wasn't pushy. "Crack den?"

Sherlock shrugged in the affirmative. "Or on the street when it's not cold. Have a few friends. I mean, it's only been a couple of months ..."  The sentence trailed off.

John nodded, turned in early that night, and, if Sherlock was prowling the house again after he was asleep, he didn't hear it at all.

Monday's busy-ness morphed into Tuesday, with John's shifts long and arduous.  A trauma case in the tube involved several victims and kept the staff busy for a number of hours.  A few text updates from Sherlock, letting him know when workmen left, when some of the deliveries had occurred.  All relatively expected, until one text message read:   **the bees were just delivered.  and they're _fascinating_. **   When John arrived home that night, he found Sherlock at the hive, a look of rapt veneration occupying his face.  John peered in as well, reminding himself that supposedly this was his doing, but his nonchalance did catch Sherlock's attention, a puzzled look about him.

And then Wednesday, when John arrived home from work, the driveway and house were empty, landscaping completed with trees, retaining wall.  John admired it before entering the house.  His greeting went unanswered.  The house and grounds were silent.  John was alone, he could sense it, but checked rooms anyway.  The spare room had been straightened, vacated.  Sherlock was gone.  His querying text returned undeliverable, the message when he called dumped immediately into a non-functioning voicemail.  John did not notice that anything was missing, and certainly there were valuables, had Sherlock wanted to leave with stolen property.  All seemed to be in place.  John had left an envelope of cash with Sherlock's name on it that John had told him would be the week's pay, and found that Sherlock had taken exactly three-fifths of the money.  John was a bit chuffed Sherlock'd shown himself to be rather trustworthy.

John scrolled through the text updates he'd received, nothing seemed awry, except for the obscure message about perhaps choosing different landscapers if he ever needed work done in the future.

 John sent a text to the man who'd arranged this in the first place: **he has moved on** **.  sorry.**

The return text: **please advise if he returns.**

After having had company in the house, John now found himself restless, now it was just him yet again.  He found the violin, cleaned, polished, carefully laid safely in the corner of the room it had been in all along.  He imagined that it would need to be returned.  And then another thought occurred to him, and he sent off another text:   **these bees are not welcome to stay here, btw**

**there is a no return policy.  enjoy them.**

John sighed,  He found the receipt, discovered it was a telephone order placed on Saturday.  In addition to the no return policy, the paperwork linked to a website regarding apiculturists and noted a 30 day guarantee on the hive.  John shook his head, popped open a beer, and sat for the next hour or so reading about beekeeping.  The bloody things needed to be fed, he discovered.  A lot.   _Daily_.  Bloody fantastic.

The next day during lunch, John received a voicemail from the landscaping company, following up on the problem from the previous day.  When he called back, as he didn't know any details, he found the owner profusely apologetic, claiming that his crew was only following orders, that it was an innocent mistake.  The story, as John was able to piece together, was that standard stone had been delivered and the bill calculated for top quality product.  The owner had been rather impressed that John's PA, as he termed him, had astutely identified the lower grade, negotiated a substantially reduced rate for the deception and their troubles.  John hung up, wondering how that confrontation had actually gone down.  There was definitely more to Sherlock Holmes than met the eye. 

John tried Sherlock's phone number a few times over the next week, looking to thank him for a job well done.  The number was no longer in service, with no further information available.

On Saturday, John went back to the golf course, ostensibly to play as a walk-on, but when the lottery in the shoppe failed to have the caddy he had been seeking, he thanked the manager for his time, and headed home.  Mostly, he put the incident out of his mind.

++

A few weeks later, John's phone rang late one evening. It was a private number, and John almost ignored it.

"'Lo?"

"I'm looking for John Watson."

"And you are?"

"Deputy Inspector Greg Lestrade, of the Yard." John said hello, identified himself, and the voice continued. "I have a young man here attempting to avoid prison. Says he used to work for you."

"Ok."

"Name's Sherlock Holmes. Found him in the company of a drug deal gone south. Refusing to give an address. We've got a few priors on him, nothing outstanding.  He's not presently impaired, but charges are pending for sale of illegal substances.  He won't turn states evidence, and can't post bail." There was background commotion, some low talking. "If you're willing to sign for him, he can go tonight. Or I lock him up. So you know him?"

"He did some work for me. I'll sign the bond." John imagined pale blue eyes trying not to show any fear. "And I'll come get him."

++

 The Met station was mostly quiet, the only business traffic were related to police activity, paperwork, and dispatch.  John entered the foyer, checked in with the reception desk, and was pointed to DI Lestrade's office.  Sherlock was seated in the chair, a file open across his lap, deep in discussion with the officer.  Both looked up as he entered.  John didn't immediately make eye contact with Sherlock, but crossed the room as Lestrade stood, shook hands with him.

"... and so it makes no sense that the victim would have fallen from that height at that angle and sustained _these_ injuries.  Her story is wrong."  Sherlock pointed to the photos.  "Maybe _pushed_ off the ledge, but I don't think she fell.  If it were me, I would question the older sister's boyfriend."  He and Lestrade had a few more points of discrepancy, and John took the time then to consider the man he'd come to collect.  He had put on and maintained a bit more weight than he'd been at previously.  His eyes were clear, speech strong, and he sat with a bit more confidence than John had noted before.

Greg gestured for Sherlock to wait, and led John out to the clerk to take care of the requisite forms.  "Thanks for coming to get him."

"Sharp mind, if he'd stay clean."

"You don't know the half of it.  Solved one of our cases while waiting - poked holes in another one there."  Greg's face showed concern, though, and he looked at John.  "He needs to find himself a new crowd to hang out with, away from dealers, suppliers, and users.  I had him in here last year I think..." and while Greg chatted, he pointed to where John needed to sign.  "Preliminary hearing's in about a week, and provided he shows up for that, this gets refunded and you're free and clear, then."  He collected Sherlock's bag, handing it to John, and carried the paperwork back to his office.   Sherlock was standing on the chair checking out angles of the dropped ceiling.

"There's stuff stashed in your ceiling, might want to check out where the missing inventory is going."  Sherlock lifted the corner of one tile, slid it up, found nothing, then tried another, revealing evidence bags there.  "One of your underlings wants your job.  Better watch your back."

"Get out," Greg said, not unkindly.  John heard the DI sigh deeply as he and Sherlock exited the room.

They were barely a few steps away from the closed door of the station when Sherlock turned to him, ready to unleash a rapid-fire explanation.  John held up a hand.  "I know you weren't.  Wrong place, wrong time."

Clearly surprised, Sherlock's mouth closed, his head inclining as if considering the innate, unmerited trust.  He met John's eyes steadily, said simply, "Thanks," and was met with a friendly smile.  John took his arm loosely above the elbow, his own hand strong as he guided Sherlock toward his auto.  The muscles under John's gentle grasp were warm, solid, lithe, and the two men were acutely aware of a connection that went beyond merely palmar surface and posterior elbow.  When they reached the car, John was reluctant to let go, and his fingers tightened slightly before releasing.

++

The ride home was mostly quiet in the beginning.  Eventually, John asked him, in a curiously interested tone, "So how long have you been clean for?"  He played his hunch, noting the appearance overall of improved colour and demeanor.

"Nineteen days.  Since that abysmal diner you took me to."  John chose to overlook the undeserved complaint.

"And how long since you've thought about using?"

Sherlock turned sideways in his seat, pensive.  John knew he was inwardly debating on what type of answer to give.  "What time is it?" he asked softly.  "But I can do it."  

Once they'd pulled into the drive, John knew he had to say something, or the consequences would be detrimental.  He turned the car off, said, "Look.  There's something you should know."  

Sherlock looked out the windshield, his gaze afar off.  "You were sent to find me, at the golf course."

John's eyes narrowed, and he blew out a surprised breath of hollow laughter.  "Yes.  How...?"

"Well, first off, you chose me out of order.  There were clearly three, perhaps four, caddies ahead of me.  But it was the _bees_.  I wouldn't have suspected just from the violin, but the bees were ordered while we were actually _on_ the golf course.  I saw the bill of lading.  Mycroft meant for me to figure it out."

"Mycroft."  John repeated the unfamiliar surname.

"My older brother," he said distastefully.  "Who _meddles_."

"He doesn't know Lestrade called me."  John opened the door, exited, as did Sherlock.  "And I'm not calling him."

Inside the door, John flipped on the security system, bolted the door, and hung up two jackets in the foyer.  The light inside was dim, and in the late hour, the surroundings were quiet, the darkness outside the windows acting as a hushed blanket of solitude.  Serious blue eyes met serious steely eyes, and John swallowed hard as he considered the recklessness of what he was wanting to do, of what he was about to do, of what became a compulsion as he took a quiet step toward Sherlock.  His hand reached out, touched him first on the forearm, the other reaching into those curls that he'd been sorely tempted by from the beginning.  Sherlock's eyes were wide as John drew his head down, lips closer, closer, the room heating up, emanating off two virile bodies standing there on the marble tile.  The first touch of mouths was gentle, soft, and tender.  When Sherlock parted his lips and angled his head more, John felt both fear of moving too fast and relief that his yearning was reciprocated.  The kiss deepened, hard muscled thighs meeting, hardness behind Sherlock's zipper impossible to ignore as John felt it pressing against his lower abdomen.  There was harsher, deeper breathing, and John slid a hand up from Sherlock's waist, his palm against Sherlock's chest, and he pushed away, reluctantly inserting a few centimetres of space between them.

"There's no rush," he said, drawing back and forcing himself to be the voice of reason.  "I don't want you to feel pressured."

" _John_.  It's all about feeling pressured, specifically, you realise.  And about seeking _release_."

"We're not doing this tonight."  John took a quavering breath that Sherlock saw, smirked at.  John balked.  "What?"

"Whom are you trying to convince?  I could make you change your mind."  There was a challenging, predatory gleam in his eye, a sparkle of excitement, the thrill of the chase.

"No, you couldn't."  He nodded his head toward the depths of the house.  "Hungry?  Want something?"

"I had exactly what I wanted a moment ago, John."  The gravelly voice conveyed exactly that he'd been considering John a veritable meal to devour.

John hesitated, laughed, and then continued, changing the subject as he led the way toward the kitchen.  "You know I've been learning a lot about bees.  That I don't care for them, that I resent feeding them, and that I vehemently dislike getting stung."  He opened the ice box, removed a bottle of water, offered one to Sherlock's outstretched hand.  "Perhaps you'd like to visit them tomorrow."

Sherlock was clearly wound up, and his body language was all about drawing John's attention.  He was succeeding, John thought wryly, for starters, as he admired the turn of the long neck as Sherlock stretched or conversed with both words and gestures.  It was bloody distracting, John thought.  "That is not any of the top three things I would like to be doing tomorrow," Sherlock concluded.

"Oh, God, don't tell me.  I'll never sleep."

"Yes, that's a direct consequence of items one and two.  I knew you'd catch on.  Shall I continue?"  

It was all John could do to fend off the verbal foreplay that Sherlock was masterfully spinning, and finally, he turned abruptly, told Sherlock good night, and that they would continue this discussion tomorrow.  Sherlock's laughter and mumbled comment about various forms of acceptable discussion followed John up the stairs.  And Sherlock hesitated only seconds before joining him.  Sherlock had turned very surprised eyes on John when they'd reached the room upstairs, carrying just his meager belongings.  The spare bed was still made, duvet over the foot which was recent, lamp on the nightstand, and the violin arranged as if intentionally positioned on a corner table.  John had shrugged at the sudden interest in the readiness of the room.  "I was perhaps expecting you back, at some point.  Can't really explain it."

++

The next day, Saturday, John awakened early, stood with his coffee in the doorway of the room in which Sherlock was sleeping.  He observed the sleeping form, rise and fall of chest, long limbs at odd angles that belied the grace with which Sherlock typically moved.  Long lashes over striking cheekbones, still pale but improved over the last weeks.  Even as he watched, he debated inwardly if the irises under those lashes were gray, blue, steel, or some combination thereof.

Watching now, he sensed such vulnerability triggering a visceral desire to care for, restore to optimal health, to provide for.  He narrowed an eye as Sherlock stirred.  "It's creepy to watch someone sleep, you know."  His voice was rough, sexy.  There was an insidious grin then, as Sherlock's eyes opened.  He stretched, long wrists reaching backward, the sheets falling toward his waist as his legs extended.  "You could join me."

The air was charged.  The sexual tension that had been hinted at previously burst into flame.  "I don't think you're ready to _handle_ me, Sherlock.  It'd be like trading one addiction for another."

Sherlock's glance cut quickly to John as the arrogant comment brought a snicker of laughter.  "Rather impressed with yourself, there, Captain Three Continents Watson."

John could only snicker.  "You've done your research then."  He came closer, and Sherlock watched vigilantly, uncertainly.  "But _all of those people_ can't possibly be wrong."

Sherlock made an estimation of John's agility, a gamble, as he grabbed his wrist and attempted a roll that could have ended up with John slung across the supine, lusty, warm body.  But John evaded the maneuver, and Sherlock, empty-handed, somehow managed to commandeer a pouting expression that made John chuckle.  

"Get up, lazy bones," John said, whisking the sheet all the way off.  "We have a date on the golf course."

"I'm not your _date_ ," Sherlock muttered.  "I'm your _caddy_ , and there's a big difference."

"Perhaps after playing, you could get all mouthy, argue with me, walk in front of me, be generally disrespectful, don't hold the doors, don't hand me anything, be your baseline rude self - and then, maybe, I'll take you to dinner.  Because I'm a nice guy."  Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow.  "Ask anyone.  You've three continents to choose from."

An eye focused on him from the prone position on the pillow, trying, obviously to assess the seriousness of John's suggestion.  "Can we just skip golf and go straight to rude?"  There was the hint of a smirk.  "Because you're not a great golfer."

"And you're a _terrible_ caddy."   

++

 

epilogue

The golf outing, in John's opinion, was entirely too much horsing around for a serious golfer, but it was by far one of the best times he'd had on any course.  Although, with Sherlock in rather good spirits and doing a lousy job of holding his tongue, the quick wit mostly between just the two of them was flying.

Before they'd even started, Sherlock slung the bag over his shoulder, muttered, "Remember to keep your head down and spread your legs a bit."

Hole two:  "Here, let me adjust your ball," he'd said, reaching down to straighten the tee.

Low tones while John was lining up a shot on hole five, muttered directly behind him, "Grip it softly and stroke it smoothly."

John's favorite, "Here, let me help you with that wood you're carrying."  He was grateful it was on hole seventeen, because it was true as well as prophetic.

 ++

They left the course in John's auto, tension in the car of a pleasant, palpable sort.

"We're going to need to get tested, you know.  Both of us."  John glanced sideways to find Sherlock nodding, shrugging.

"Ok.  Why you?  Aren't you required to for work or something?"

"Periodically.  But in the interest of being fair.  I'm willing."

"I'm not afraid of needles."

"I should say you're not," John agreed dryly.  "I have lab supplies at home, we can drop it off at the hospital anytime.  You're not adverse to me drawing your blood?  I can get someone at the hospital to get mine..."

"I'll do it."  At John's concerned look, Sherlock continued.  "What?  Not a huge difference, a vein is a vein, it's venipuncture whether you are drawing blood or injecting something."  His chin came out then.  "Don't you trust me?"

"Not especially.  But I'll let you try.  I have decent veins."

At home, John gathered supplies, gestured to the chair opposite him, and Sherlock sat down, watched carefully as John applied a tourniquet, flicked a vein, pulled off two tubes of blood, and deftly completed the procedure in silence.  After labeling the tubes and banding them with paperwork, he turned to Sherlock, expectantly.

"Amateur," Sherlock concluded, good-naturedly judging and finding fault.

"What?  I do this all the time, there was nothing wrong with that."

"Except that it _hurt_ ," Sherlock said.

"Hallo, it's a bloody _needle_ , of course it hurts a bit."

" _Pffft_.  Give."  Sherlock tugged at John's sleeve, fussed with the tourniquet, and waited for John to assemble the venipuncture set.  Sherlock's eyes sparkled as he declined the gloves that John offered.  "No."

Sherlock glanced around the room, considering his words, finally said, "Look out the window, I don't want you staring."  He cleaned the juncture of John's elbow, pressing tightly with fingertip and nail for a few seconds while John did as requested.  John felt the coolness of the alcohol, then Sherlock's fingernail as it gently ran down his forearm away from the venipuncture site, along with the slight tremor that Sherlock's dominant right hand was experiencing.

He finally spoke, "Look if you don't want to..." and with that John felt gauze applied to the bend of his arm and his eyes cut quickly to the two full tubes of blood and the arrogant and victorious smile on Sherlock's face as he released the tourniquet and removed the needle.

"It doesn't _have_ to hurt, you know."

"How did you...?" John took over the pressure on the gauze while Sherlock mimicked John's earlier actions with the tube labels and paperwork.

"It's a little bit of acupressure and some creative diversionary tactics."  When John's eyes narrowed, Sherlock continued.  "Listen, what do you think people who do drugs do to keep it interesting?  Well, not everyone, of course, but I always found if I was going to do something, I was going to be incredible at it."  He leaned forward, his mouth seeking John's again, his lips teasing, seeking, promising much in the way of pleasure.  "How long does it take to get results back?  Because once we have them, I'll be glad to demonstrate what else I'm incredible at."

John leveled a skeptical gaze at him.  "If it weren't for your _incredible_ caddy skills, I would _maybe_ believe you." Sarcasm dripped from his words, and neither of them could contain the bursts of laughter.

++

Later that night, after avoiding close proximity as much as possible - _for pity's sake_ , John realised, the two of them were nearly _combustible_ in the same room - John connected his computer into the hospital's secure network.  Sherlock looked over his shoulder as he pulled up his own results first, everything negative.  Sherlock's results, to which John had, with permission, added toxicology, were also negative.  As John logged out of the system, he felt warm lips beneath the angle of his ear, sucking gently, while warm breath traversed the front of his neck.  His fingers stilled over the keyboard as the gentle swipes of Sherlock's tongue on his neck worked magical tingles that filled his chest and warmed his groin to a throbbing need.  Lifting his arm over his head, he seized Sherlock between the shoulder blades, arching his back and pressing the two of them closer.  It was not enough, and very likely to hurt if he continued.  Quickly, he rose, turning his body in toward Sherlock, whose arms reached around, enveloping, grabbing for purchase over belt, buttons, and to crush together whatever he could.  

John eased back after a few minutes, lips swollen from a vigorous and enthusiastic partner.  "Hey.  Upstairs?"  He unbuttoned the black shirt a few buttons, slipped warm clinician hands in, palpating musculature, pulsatile precordium, finding sensitive nipples and pressing both, subtly pinching.

"God yes."  Sherlock leaned into John's touch, reaching his own hand to cup the rigid shaft at the juncture of John's legs.  He was rewarded by John's shaky breathing and the hard length pressing into his hand.  Sherlock leaned in, divesting John of shirt and drawing a deep snog before pulling away, his hands lingering on the angles of John's face.  "You want me to shave again?"

"No, not really.  No more wasting time.  We should both probably try to avoid stubble burn, though, yeah?"  He eased back, then, and took Sherlock's hand, led the way upstairs.  They were both shirtless, and as they entered John's bedroom, Sherlock stopped in front of the mirror against the wall.  The light was on, and he tossed both his shirt and John's aside.  His arms came up behind John and their gaze met and held in the mirror.  Angling slightly, Sherlock slid his hand up along John's ribs, reaching muscled pectorals, his fingers circling the darker areola, fine blond hairs sensitive.  John was watching Sherlock's face until Sherlock whispered, "Watch _here_ ," giving a small squeeze until John's eyes were drawn to the long fingers.  Sherlock, his hands sliding, and John, his back arching, both watched in the mirror as Sherlock's hands went to John's belt, unbuckled then unzipped, sliding both jeans and pants down until John stepped out of them, having already slid out of shoes.  His shaft in Sherlock's hands was thick, rock hard, and tense.  Sherlock steadied John with a hand as he lowered slowly to a knee in front of him, his open mouth trailing down chest, navel, quickly to the head.  His eyes rocked upward to John's and John glanced uncertainly between Sherlock's mouth and the image in the mirror.  It was too visual, and John could only submit to a few minutes of the slick heat of Sherlock's mouth before gasping and pulling back, unwilling to end singly or imminently.

He drew Sherlock to the bed, waited as Sherlock quickly stripped, and, while his own body eased back from the precipice of orgasm, he looked down at Sherlock's lean form just beneath him.  His hands started back in his hair, with his mouth soon following, from nose to knees, detouring around Sherlock's own long cock until the end, when his mouth found velvet hardness.  Sherlock uttered a long, shaky moan followed by a gasp of "Oh Jesus, oh my God, _John_!"  John felt Sherlock's hands pulling him upward, looking to slow things down some, and John obliged, returning so that they were again face to face.  Sweaty skin, musky scent, and sturdy flesh assaulted John's senses as he reached his hand down between them.

Strong fingers and long fingers grabbed, tugged, pressed, and _trembled_ as both pelvises ground together.  There was enough moistness that no further lube was needed, and shortly, there were a long bursts of fluids from both of them, meshing, meeting, pulsating to the cacophony of moaning, groaning, and a few harsh, gasping curses.  Moments later, they lay, Sherlock draped across John's chest, both of them sweating, their heart rates beginning to settle down, their breathing less labored.  A profound sense of languor settled over John as he drew an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pressing his lips to the side of his head.   

The only item John could reach easily for clean up purposes was his vest, and he dried them off somewhat, stretching to extinguish the lamp.  What he wanted to say to the man currently laying in the protection of his arms was, _welcome home, sleep well_.  What he said, instead, was, "You were right, _you were incredible_."  Sherlock made a low grumbling noise of pleasure in his throat, acknowledging the statement, but John felt and heard the sigh of contentment in his arms as he relaxed and sleep overtook them both.

++

Mycroft's alert on his mobile buzzed, one of the many he had set to attempt to keep tabs on his brother.  A log in at the hospital across town, this time.  He opened the alert, scanning the document of the encounter details.  A few additional clicks and the search showed that Sherlock had shown up for lab work under the care of one Dr. John Watson.   _Hmmm_.  Mycroft considered the testing that had been ordered.  Another link noted the acquisition of lab work a few minutes apart, also logged for Dr. Watson, his own name also provider.  Mycroft sat back, his fingers steepled under his nose, the faintest of knowing smiles on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments, kudos, suggestions always the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
> 
> It is, indeed, very dangerous to abuse drugs in general, but moreso after a period of time of trying to get clean. An abuser may inadvertently overdose simply by using an amount previously tolerated in a body unused to it. Dr. Watson brings up very salient points regarding weight loss as well, affecting the potency of drugs on the body.
> 
> Another fic that interrupts the longer one in progress absolutely demanding to be written. (Now, please, dear fic, get out of my head, I have another to write and RL to attend to!)


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